Linonophobia
by VoyeurOfUtterDestruction
Summary: Linonophobia. (n.) 1. Phobia of strings. 2. The fear of strings. No Beta so...umm,mistakes.Warnings!Includes,blood and gore. Reviews are always welcome! Note:[this is not a Vamp!Lock fic so dont review it as one.It is a plain Sherlock fic.BBC Sherlock.]
1. Your deathly violins

**Linonophobia.** (n.) _1. _ _Phobia_ _of strings._  
_ 2. The fear of strings._

The pale,smooth skin around Sherlocks full lips is stained.  
Small pieces of flesh,vein shreds and thick blood are dripping from the corners of his lips.  
The tips of his fingers and his nose have an redish tint.

Between his sharp teeth,4 dripping,glistening tendons are held.  
He twitches his neck slightly to the left,the carotid vein flexes evidently under the clear skin.  
He turns his chin towards the left,he pulls with his teeth and the tendons stretch.

John is not looking.  
He doesn't want to know where the satanic strings stem from.

Sherlocks ivory right wrist cracks and the bow is falling towards the strings.  
It stops less than an inch above the stringy tendons.  
The detectives eyes are burning feverishly in their bruised sockets.  
The corners of his lips curl up in the tiniest of smirks.

The bow touches the bloody strings.

John has frozen.  
His eyes travel down the vibrating strings and reach their roots.  
Sherlocks left wrist is cut open and the tendons are pulled out from there.  
The blood is bubbly and looks like cherry juice.

The melody is destructive. Divine. Solely performed for him.  
It is a sonata Sherlock Holmes has composed himself.A bit of Wagner,pinch of Faust and a tad of one of Johns favourite composers,Stravinsky.

The blood is rushing uncontrollably.  
Onthe floor underneath the violonists feet a small pool of red is forming.

John feels like everything is collapsing,exploding,crashing...all in a deadly dance of destruction accompanied by Sherlocks sonata.  
His eyes widen and the veins in them grow more evident with each note struck on the deathly, _handmade_, violin.

Sherlock hears a door creaking and his focus falters.  
The tempo is disturbed for a split second.


	2. Angels suffocating

The violonists eyelids fly open.  
John feels like that blue is getting him high.

He forgets about the door as the melody returns, more violent and demanding than before. He can hear angels suffocating behind his eardrums [had he read this phrase somewhere, he must have ...].  
He cannot decide wether he likes the sounds or not.  
Everything is so vague.  
Momentarily he forgets about Sherlocks blood loss and rapidly festering wounds and loses himself in the divine melody.

Elegant footsteps echo as the melody pauses adding to the dramatic,confusing atmosphere.

"Oh please, do continue!Don't stop the concert for me,I'll quietly take my seat...here." a strangely familiar voice says and the sound of fabric rubbing against tougher,more worn out fabric can be barely heard.  
"You are late." Sherlock says with his back towards the direction from where the voice came.  
His eyes close again and he cracks his wrist, stretching the tendons further. The bow falls again. The melody starts again. John can hear the explosions again, so violent,so furious, so full of rage, so ready to kill.

The doctor tries to make out the barely visible shilouette. He half closes his wrinkled,tired eyes. He makes out the narrow,sharply defined shoulders,the head tilted to the left,the pale index finger of the figures left hand tapping according to the ryth on his knee.

Sherlock hits an incredibly high note that sends Johns hands searching for his ears. The melody is so merciless,white and glass sharp,designed...composed to kill.

Sherlock hits another couple of oddly arranged notes and allows the bow to fall down near his hip. He bows slightly towards John. John...,he picked to bow for John. He performed for John. John. His John.

His intoxicating blue eyes pierce through the army doctor like x-rays. He feels so,so tired yet he needs to look after the detective,he needs to clean and stitch him up. John takes a step forward but stumbles onto something and falls rapidly.

His cheek crashes against the hard floor and he freezes then and there.  
His eyes focus on a bug that crawls wickedly on the carpet a few inches away from him.  
It is a ghostly,lingering beetle. He sees it move, it's alarmingly large limbs and crawl akwardly with its hard shell and weird,horn looking front.  
It is such a peculiar specimen. Almost see-through and the doctor could swear it got larger with every minute ticking on the clock.

Sherlock spins on his heel and is now facing the mysterious intruder. The late audience member. The special guest. He tilts his head to the left side as well.  
"How did you enjoy my performance?" he asks politely and... venomously.  
"It was outstanding." the voice replies cautiously. John hears sounds that indicate someone got up. Two elegant steps closer to Sherlock. His Sherlock.

His eyes focus on the spot where the beetle sat moments ago and he realizes that this mysterious guest is a threat to the detective. A threat to Sherlock. His Sherlock.

"It's time to go now Sherlock. For both of us,before everything turns boring...ordinary." the voice says and the sound of a gun loading echos in the silent room.

"How kind of you to come and stay until the end. As we agreed...I go after you. I need to say my last goodbyes." Sherlocks hoarse,deep voice replies.  
John doesn't know why but tears fill his eyes. He doesn't know the details but he knows the greater image. Just like this,with an explosive last goodbye Sherlock is leaving...forever.

He hears Sherlock kneel beside him and smells the festering flesh around the deep cut and the hanging,shreded nerves,veins and tendons at the detectives wrist.  
"This is the end." Sherlock says and the tips of his blood stained fingers run through the doctors soft hair and massage his temple. "My only friend...The End.".

_To be continued..._

Authors note: I am terribly sorry it took me so long to update!I am a terrible writer,sorry again.  
Also,no beta this time either so be patient with the mistakes.  
In the end I couldnt resist quoting Jim with me.

And to the person who reviewed: Thank you very much,you give me motivation to keep going,I hope you find this chapter equally interesting and continue to read this story till the End.


	3. Does your head hurt?

"Does your head hurt Sherlock?"  
Jim Moriarty asks as his temple bleeds. He tries to laugh but what comes out sounds more like he is choking. He spits blood and his lips curl up in a snarl. He looks like one of those dogs that go berserk and get shot in the head...left to bleed to their deaths.  
"Mine too." He continues smirking with effort. His fine Westwood suit stained beyond repair.

Sherlock can't talk. Just a pair of glassy eyes stares apologetically towards the ceiling. Blood runs across the alabaster skin of his face,a drop slides across the bridge of his nose leaving a double scarlet trail.  
His coats collar is brushing against his sharp cheekbone and the curls on the back of his head are caked with already drying blood.

John feels like his body cannot respond to his brains commands anymore. He heard the shot,he heard the fall,he needs to see.  
He stumbles across the room hitting against corners of furniture. He feels like the world is spining in slow and superfast motion at the same time. Like those who drown at sea he can see all the momments of his life with Sherlock flash before him like a movie on his eyelids.  
He tries not to fall down the rusty,spiral staircase as he walks up to the roof.

The cold night air is damp and he can still smell the gunpowder,feel the tension,the regret,the last agonizing momment.  
He looks around but he only sees shadows. Everything is so quiet except...except the notes. The notes of a haunting,deathly violin.  
He walks around searching for the evidence. Searching for the bodies.  
He hears a choked laughter and feels the adrenaline rush through his veins like bullets tearing through thin paper.

He turns around and comes face to face with one of the most bizzare,gruesome sights of his life.[And to think he had been in Afghanistan.] James-Jim Moriarty bleeding and covered in a mixture of his own and Sherlocks blood,carrying the latter in his arms,stumbling dangerously close to the edge of the roof. A silent scream escapes his lips. Moriarty laughs spitting blood.  
Johns eyes water,everything is twisted now,through the salty tears it seems like the blood from Moriartys temple joins a stream together with Sherlocks blood running upwards from the back of his head,dripping from his wrist around the hanging tendons and down his pale frozen,ever young face.

Moriarty has suffered extreme blood stumbles and drops to his knees. Sherlocks head hits the ground again,air pumps out of his lungs like it had been held in there for a very long time. His eyes open suddenly. His lips are hanging slightly open as well. He stares at the starry sky above him.

"Doesnt mean I cannot appreciate its value..." Sherlock mutters as he takes a shaky breath.

John wants to run. Touch the detective,make sure he is real,he is breathing,he is alive,he is more than a fake porcelain doll. But John cannot run. He cannot run because he is falling. Falling down a tunnel of notes, blood streams, tendons, ivory skin and intoxicating visions of familiar icy blue eyes.

_To be continued..._

__Authors note:Again,sorry for the delay. No beta so please patience with the mistakes.  
This chapter was inspired by a wonderful piece of artwork which can be found here:

gallery/#/d5dd302

To the person who reviewed and to the person who followed :  
Thank you guys,you're awesome!  
I hope you like this chapter and keep reading this story till the End.


	4. The final act

Slowly the tunnel around him changes,it's morphology transforms. From the vague, vortex like hole it turns into a solid, cramped wormhole. The curved walls around him turn red and bluish. The whole thing stinks of decay and rot. He feels like he is sliding down a piece of cut,rotting meat lined with nerves and tendons and muscles...

The tunnel vibrates. Suddenly it starts beating,thumping like a human heart. And all around him John Watson can spot the signs. The veins and slik surfaces, the tunnels crossing,everything is clear. He feels the iron fist of fear clenching his own heart thats racing like a rodent chased by a cat.  
Everything is loud,huge and red. He feels like the heart is devouring him, feeding on him to support the life of it's owner.

His back arches in mid air and he freezes. His eyes stare frozen towards the walls of the heart in awe. In awe like he was trapped in the palace of a blood thirsty king.

Everything turns black. Without warning his senses turn numb. Like someone disconected his brain, like someone pulled the plug.

Sherlock runs but its like the road is endless.  
He heard the crash,he saw the blood stain the glass shards like mashed roses and poppy flowers.  
He runs and runs and runs...  
He pushes the door open and hurries to the living room.

John lies on the floor his eyes shut and side bleeding. The skin of his ribcage torn by a bullet, the bone showing.  
Sherlock runs closer and takes the numb body in his arms. He can feel the thumping of the heart much larger than his own...metaphorically speaking.  
His eyes darken as he hears the hiss. Too late to turn, too late to fall.

The first bullet rips his ear,the second burns his heart. Those were his words after all werent they?  
"I'll burn the heart out of you."  
He falls ontop of Johns body choking on his own blood with wide eyes and spasms run across his spine.  
"Touche." he whispers with a final smile as another gunshot echos, far away down the road.

Jim Moriartys eyes fly open at the sound of a violin.  
He looks straight up and faces a familiar figure in the dark.  
Something is hanging from the figures wrist and something is stretched between his teeth and the inside of his wrist.  
"_This_...is our final problem." the figure says and a smile flashes in the dark.

_The End._

__Authors Note: So this is the finale. I really hope you liked this... this little game of ours.  
I hope I didnt disapoint you. After all,we both know this was not just a nightmare,but what is truth and what is lie? Well,that I will leave upon you to find out.

Thank you to everyone who read,reviewed and followed. You make my world go round and motivate me to keep writing. I promise to come up with a new story soon.  
Infact,I already have one!


End file.
